


Fine Enough

by wishesgoverybad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hunting, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 18:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13440453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishesgoverybad/pseuds/wishesgoverybad
Summary: Snapshot of hunting while sick.





	Fine Enough

Sam noticed things were going wonky last night, when Dean changed into what he considers pajamas at around 9pm.

“What?” he asked in response to Sam’s upturned eyebrows, “I’m tired.”

And then Dean fell asleep with his face squashed into the pillow before Sam even turned out the light.  But they’d been going for days and Dean never slept for more than a few hours anyway and tomorrow they had to be up by five and who is Sam to complain when Dean finally manages to do something that isn’t completely self-destructive.

Dean wakes up first.  He usually did on days with a hunt. He likes to check his weapons one last time.  He usually manages to finish this weird ritual of double and triple checking before he wakes up Sam, but today Sam wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Dean blowing his nose.

“Sorry,” Dean says sheepishly before tossing the tissue and washing his hands.

“It’s okay,” Sam rubs his eyes. “You alright?”

Dean just shrugs, “I’m fine.”  He’s counting out ammo and clearing his throat between sips of coffee.

Sam wants to tell him to shut up and just go back to bed, but he doesn’t, he just gets some coffee, burns his tongue when he tries to drink it too soon, and then rummages through their supplies for some meds while it cools.  He tosses them to Dean, who catches them with his left hand, hardly looking up.

“Wish this job came with sick days,” Sam says, testing his coffee.

Dean grunts as he downs the pills, then goes back to cleaning a shotgun.

 

They’re after a water sprite, and they don’t even have to kill it, just coax it out of the sewers so it can evaporate and come back a little less cranky.  Water sprites aren’t meant to be cooped up and stagnant.  This one has been drowning city workers often enough that some conspiracy theorist douche has started making references to Pennywise, and Dean is not having that shit.

But of course water sprites are only visible in the first light of dawn, which is at about 7 these days because it’s winter and pretty fucking cold to boot.  They have a pretty narrow window to find it and trap it or trick it or force it into the open and then they’ll have to blow town because that douchey conspiracy theorist has been digging around and sooner or later, he’ll figure out who they are...or aren’t.  And then everything will go sideways.

They get there early to set up.  It’s risky, because the sprite is invisible, but sprites don’t tend to attack before dawn.  But then again this one has been off the rails for a while though, so who knows.  Sam hands Dean a packet of sage and lavender.

“If you light this, you won’t be able to see the sprite, but you’ll be able to see its shadow,” he explains.

Dean nods and sneezes into his elbow.

“You sure you up for this?” Sam asks, but Dean just waves him off, lights the beeswax candles that are supposed to draw the sprite near, readies the rope of willow bark that’s supposed to catch it if it won’t leave on its own, sneezes again.

“Water sprites are like freaking supernatural hippies,” he growls and Sam can see him try to wipe his nose while negotiating the rope and the shotgun.  

They don’t say much after that, but Sam can hear Dean sniffling and the occasional cough.  He can tell his brother is trying to be quiet.  Dean shoots him a look that dares him to say anything, then sneezes almost silently into his shoulder while they wait.  

The sky above the manhole cover fades from navy to purple to gray.

All things considered, it’s not a bad hunt.  The sprite comes wafting toward the candles, and it would probably just slip right out into the sun, but then Dean sneezes and it freaks.  It smashes into the wall next to him and tosses Dean into an aqueduct.  But they can see it, faint, like smoke, and Sam blocks off the passageway with the rope and now the only way out is up and Dean sputters but rights himself.  There’s one terrifying moment where Sam can see through the sprite to its open, wispy fangs, and he really thinks Dean won’t make it, but before it strikes, faster than Sam can see, Dean gets the rope around it like a leash. He drags it up the ladder with some sort of throaty primal scream.  By the time Sam crawls up after him the rope is limp, Dean didn’t even need to untie it, the sprite just dissipated in the sunlight.  Dean’s panting with his elbows on his knees and he smiles and Sam forgets what a mess his brother is until he coughs, holds his side, closes his eyes and breathes through it too quietly.

“Come on,” Sam says and helps him up.  He wants to bring him back to a motel, clean his cuts, let him sleep, but they toss their things in the Impala and drive off, sun in their eyes, Dean sniffling and shivering for an hour and a half until he pulls onto some muddy sideroad and tilts his head back with a long exhalation.  

“I’m fine, Sammy.  Really,” he says, even though Sam hasn’t said anything.  Sam knows better.

“Not really,” Sam ventures, and Dean cracks an eyelid, tipping his head slightly upright.

“Fine enough,” Dean says, closing his eyes again. One eye is starting to bruise along the eyebrow ridge. He’s shaking.  Small, abortive movements, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“What does that even mean?” Sam asks. “You look like shit.”

Dean snuffles, sneezes, reaches for a napkin in the glove compartment.  He blows his nose and sighs, “I feel like shit, man, but what are you going to do?”

“Stop. Rest...Give ourselves a day.” But Sam’s words have no force.

“We can’t.  You know we can’t.  I only stopped now to get on some dry clothes,” Dean makes a slow, labored attempt to get out of the car. It’s painful to watch.

Sam knows he’s right.  He gets pissed at his brother for his stoic bullcrap, but he knows it has a purpose.  He gets out of the car and opens the trunk while Dean stands unsteadily by his side.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, when his brother hands him a random assortment of semi-clean clothing.

Sam’s eyebrows jump up and he wants to know  _ Why, what for? _ But Dean beats him to the punch.

“For messing up the hunt.  It would have been fine.  I just…” Dean blinks wearily, trying to explain himself.  He’s peeling off his wet t-shirt in the freezing midwinter sunlight.  His side and back are bruised and cut, but they aren’t bleeding.  The moisture on his hot skin is turning to steam above his shoulders. It reminds Sam of the sprite.

“You couldn’t help it Dean,” Sam says and Dean nods, as he slips on his new clothes, still shivering.  Sam can see the brightness in his eyes, knows he’s edging closer and closer to a pretty rocking fever.

“I’m fine,” Dean manages as he emerges from his shirt, “I’ll be okay, Sam.  Let’s just keep moving.”

Sam wants to say he knows.  He knows this isn’t life threatening, that Dean’s just sick and feeling crappy and in the end it will be okay, but he wants to know, why can’t it be okay now?  Or not even okay, just...better.  He wants to know why they can’t have just this one sliver of peace.  He wants to know why Dean can’t even bring himself to tell Sam how bad it is.  But Sam doesn’t press, because Dean is right and they have to get going, and what’s the point?  He just holds his hands out for the keys, and Dean slaps them in without a fuss, and if there was ever a clear indicator that Dean is not fine, this is it, spoken without words. So Sam takes them and makes his way to the driver’s side and doesn’t push it.  Dean settles in Sam’s seat and he’s coughing again, and he’s truly shaking now, so Sam goes back to the trunk, fishes out a wool blanket that smells like mildew and tucks it around his brother.  Dean just looks at him, like even nodding is too much.  He sneezes and groans and Sam puts the car in gear.

They drive and Dean shivers and works his way through old fast food napkins and sometimes Sam hands him pills and sometimes Dean takes them and he says, “I’m fine.  I’m fine.” He says it when they run out of meds and again when they can’t find a motel. He rolls his head against the glass of the window and coughs but is somehow too quiet but things are fine.  

Everything’s fine.


End file.
